


Jeté

by vaderdalas



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet Instructor Aleksander Morozova, Climate Change, Depression, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Rating May Change, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slightly futuristic, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, i haven't decided if i want to make this explicit yet, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 00:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20751494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaderdalas/pseuds/vaderdalas
Summary: Alina's a newly orphaned high school senior at a prestigious dance preparatory school. Aleksander is a new dance instructor and ballet prodigy. Climate change is rampant and even worse than it is now. Life seems hopeless. High school drama, dance auditions, and weird sabotage all collide in Washington, DC.Updates Mondays!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeet so i wanted to do a modern au that included dance so here we have it. Please enjoy, I know certain parts are cheesy but it will get less so as this fic goes on!

My hands were cold. That was the first thing I noticed when I woke up on the second Tuesday in February, under nearly ten wool blankets and wearing three sweaters. Damn. The heat was  _ still  _ out. I reached for the lamp beside my bed before remembering that the electricity was gone, too. Sighing, I peeled the heavy blankets off of me and pulled myself into a sitting position, cursing at the sharp pain that lanced through my head.  _ Fuck _ .

My feet hit the floor with a thump. I stood, letting the chill settle into my bones and wrap around my brain. I padded across the room, footsteps muted by four pairs of socks, opening the door and feeling my way to the bathroom.

It had been nearly two months since I’d last had electricity. I missed December 15th to pieces. Ever since my dad had died, I’d had no money to pay the bills, but thank God the house was already paid off. Now, the only thing I had to worry about was Child Protective Services. Thankfully, I only had a few months before I turned eighteen.

I left the house that morning wearing just as many articles of clothing as I slept in. There was simply no way around it. Summers were getting hotter and winters were getting colder. With the awful president elected a second term, climate change wasn’t going to get any better. Many scientists had said that it was, in fact, too late. Awesome, right?

Flurries fell around me as I waded through the snow, which was a dirty grey-brown color that had been there for weeks. I hadn’t seen white snow in ages. Nor, for that matter, the sun. During the winter, it just...disappeared.

“I love my life,” I mumbled to myself as I reached the metro station and plodded down the icy escalator. Underground, the station was packed with people covered in fur coats and plastic ponchos. We all looked like Eskimos, and perhaps, at this point, we were. No one drove anymore. No one took the bus. We couldn’t. There was simply no asphalt to drive on. Everything was covered in snow, and under that, a layer of unforgiving ice.

The lights on the platform began to flash, signaling an incoming train. I watched it fly past my face, almost skimming my nose, wondering what would happen if I stood just one foot closer. No. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and stepped into the now-stopped train car. Inside, the glare of the fluorescent lights made me frown as I was pushed against the wall by a group of puffy, padded people behind me. The car was heated, and so everyone was sweating in their twenty layers.  _ Jesus fucking Christ. _ Why couldn’t they just turn the heat off? Or better yet, fix the climate?

As I let out a long sigh (something I was doing too often these days) and pulled out my phone, I heard someone let out a yell behind me. At this, the people filling the car turned their heads, shooting dirty looks at the perpetrator. It was an unspoken rule that the metro was a silent place, a reprieve from the business of the day, the stress of the impending demise of the human race. Dramatic, sure, but nonetheless true.

The unidentified person who’d let out the yell was now panting unevenly. People were backing away, even in the already-packed-to-the-brim, moving, stuffy train car. I saw him then. A young man, looking to be around my age, wearing a black wool trench coat lined with black fur, high, fur-topped snow boots (again, black) laced up to his knees. His leather-gloved hands clutched his head, which was now emitting a low moaning sound, as he crouched on the dirty, gum-covered floor.  _ What the fuck? _

An old woman standing next to me muttered something intelligible to herself. I swiveled my head ever so slightly to look at her, not wanting to draw attention. Her face was drawn into a tight frown, eyes narrowed, nose pinched, lips pursed. I saw her hand reach into her pocket and pull out her phone. Deftly, she swiped up the camera setting and began to record. Shit, this was gonna get bad.

The train lurched under my feet. Slowed. Stopped. The doors slid open. I shoved my way to the front, ignoring the “hey!” and “fuck you!” that were directed toward me. As soon as I stood in the station, I let a breath of dank subway air fill my lungs. The chaotic train behind me pulled away. There, it was gone. No more weird-ass sick boy to worry about. No more stalker internet old lady.

Slowly, I made my way over to a stone bench and sat on it. It was old, caked with dirt and grime, making me feel sullied even by touching it. The underground system had expanded greatly within the past twelve years. Back in elementary school, lines were limited, stations unclean and dark, and trains slow. Since then, three lines had been added, and on those lines, stations were bright and clean, benches were made of smooth recycled plastic, and everything seemed so perfectly futuristic.

This was not one of those stations.

The next train pulled in. I stood, brushed off the invisible germs as well as I could, and stepped onto the train.

***

I was fifteen minutes late to school that day. Peering through the window of my first period class, I saw that there was a different teacher inside, most likely a substitute, sitting slumped at the desk. Her head was tilted to one side, mouth slightly open. Asleep. Perfect.

I creaked open the door and sat down at my usual desk, setting down my bag on the right. The class was a mess around me, people throwing things, shouting, and giggling. And this was supposed to be senior year of high school. _ Yeah, sure _ .

Just then, the door creaked again. I glanced over at it nervously, surely it was an administrator coming to admonish our class for the noise and lack of studying. But, no. It was a student, dressed in black from head to toe, face pale, glimmering eyes, and a sullen expression. The boy from the train.

“What the fuck?” I said aloud. Louder than I had intended, in fact. The girl next to me, Zoya, turned around at my exclamation.

“What is it, Alina?” she mumbled, annoyed. Her bright makeup and curly black hair were perfect despite the fact that she’d been asleep on her desk just a minute ago.

“I just saw that dude this morning,” I said to her, pointing at the boy. “He was having some weird-ass fit on the metro.”

Her gaze traveled up to where my finger pointed, landing on the black-clad boy. “ _ Oh _ ,” was all she said, her eyes glazing over. And I knew what she meant. He was beautiful, now that I could see his face. It was pointed and clear, with a sharp jaw and defined cheekbones. His quartz eyes pierced everything he looked at and his black hair was slightly curled and slightly tousled.

“Mmhm,” I responded, turning back to look at Zoya.

“Don’t ‘mmhm’ me,” she said, trance broken. “As if your sorry ass could ever catch that.”

I rolled my eyes in annoyance. Zoya was known for her bitchiness, even if she was beautiful. Classic popular girl, with a touch of overemphasized care for the environment. She could be nice, but then again, so could any popular girl: when she wanted to be.

I leaned back and stretched before finally starting the struggle to take off my layers, never taking my eyes off the boy. To my surprise, he didn’t find a seat in the class, but instead went up to the sub, tapping her on the shoulder without hesitation. The woman woke with a start.

“Excuse me, Ms…?”

“Wallace,” she replied grumpily, sitting up and blinking a few times. “What is it, young man? Are you late? I already took attendance and sent it down to the office.”

“I’m not a student,” the boy said. I scoffed.  _ Sure. And climate change wasn’t real _ . He pulled out an ID card from his trenchcoat and handed it to the sub. “I’m looking for the ballet department.”

The sub huffed and handed the ID back to the boy without looking at it. “Look, son,” she said, face devoid of expression. “I don’t know what trick you’re trying to play, but I don’t work here. I’m just a substitute.” She shrugged. “Why don’t you check the main office if you’re new here?”

“I tried,” the boy replied. “But, as you mentioned, I’m just starting here today, so I don’t know where that is.”

Zoya, who’d also been listening, perked up at that. “I can show you,” she offered, voice suddenly silken and soft. I rolled my eyes again. Of course she would.

The boy turned at her words, heard loud and clear over the class that had now fallen silent at the sight of this odd boy claiming not to be a student. “I’d appreciate that, young lady,” he said.  _ Young lady? _ And how old was he? Surely not older than twenty.

Zoya gracefully stood, clutching her Fjallraven backpack in one hand and reusable Starbucks mug in the other. She tied her blue wool coat lined with silver fur and made her way to the front of the class, towards the door. “I’ll be right back, Ms. Wallace,” she said, leading the boy out of the classroom.

“Don’t bother,” Wallace replied. “Class is almost over.”

As soon as they left, I let out a low chuckle. No doubt Zoya would attempt to charm him, and be rebuffed. Or maybe not. Who really knew, anyway? Beautiful people loved to stick together. Besides, the gossip would find its way back to me in the end, probably courtesy of my best friend, Mal, a jock who was loved by all the girls.

The bell rang. People shuffled out of the classroom, me along with them. I had a million things to do: college apps, a project for calculus, and about three readings. But none of them were on my mind. Who was this boy? Why was he at my school? And what had happened on the train? I was beginning to think I’d imagined it all. But I had not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alina meets Instructor Morozova in choreo class. Low key sexual tension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy y'all I'm back with a new chapter! I sure hope you enjoy! if you don't like teacher/student au now's you time to skedaddle;) Don't worry, nothing happens until a few months later, when Alina actually turns 18.

The bell rang. Gathering up my layers and shoving them on (an arduous process), I followed the class through the door and into the hall packed to the brim with students. It wouldn’t normally feel so crowded, but it was as if every person was worth two if you counted all the coats.

I reached the end of the hall. Taking a breath, I opened the door and cringed as the wind flew through the doorway, causing me to shrink into my scarf. I made my way across the outdoor commons, which had been abandoned for some time, and entered the building across the way: the dance department. My favorite time of day. I always started school with an academic class, then went straight to the dance building for Choreography. Choreo was by far my favorite class and in fact, one that I had every day. Then, it was back to academic classes until the afternoon.

The warm air surrounded me as soon as I entered the dance department, though not as heated as the main building. Choreo was in room 418. Sigh.  _ Stairs _ .

Two minutes later, I was on the fourth floor in front of the dance studio 418. I pushed it open. There were only two other students inside, stretching on the ballet barre against the mirror. It seemed that the instructor, Mr. Daniels, was not there yet. I ambled over to the cubbies on the far wall and began to un-layer myself. Finally, I was in only the leotard and tights that I wore every day under the two shirts, three pairs of leggings, five sweaters, and a coat. Sure it was cheesy, but I didn’t feel like a dancer while wearing all that. I was free.

After putting on my ballet slippers, I joined the others at the barre and started stretching. Rotated my ankles, flexed and pointed my toes. _En avant_ _tendu_, _dégagé_, _battement_. More students walked in. I saw my friend Genya and waved. _Rond de jambs_, front-to-back, back-to-front. More students at the barre. No Instructor Daniels, though. Odd. It was five past. _Plié_, _relevé_, _port de bras_. First, second, fourth, fifth positions. Where were they?

Another seven minutes passed. The other students had begun to pull out their phones and had sat slumped against the wall. If Daniels didn’t come in the next three minutes, we were free to leave. Another minute. I padded over to where Genya was leaning on the barre. “Hey, girl.”

“Hey, yourself. How you holding up?”

“Fine.”  _ A lie _ . “Fine enough.”

“That’s a mood. I’m so tired,” Genya replied with a yawn so long, I could barely make out her words. “Think it’s the gloomy weather.”

“Mmhm.”

We stood there in silence for a bit. There was nothing to be said, really. We knew each other’s thoughts. Depressive thoughts. Dark thoughts. No point in indulging those thoughts, really.

“Hey,” Genya suddenly said, shaking my arm. “Did you hear about the new instructor?” When I shook my head slowly, she grinned. “Daniels is out. I  _ heard… _ ” She lowered her voice. “I  _ heard  _ that the new guy’s  _ young _ .”

A slow dread was beginning to creep into my system, a sense of foreboding. I knew where this was going. “What--what does he look like?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t know much, except that he apparently graduated high school at fourteen and college at seventeen. He’s been a full-time teacher and performer for three years. So he’s gotta be twenty.” She winked. “Fun, huh?”

Fun, indeed. “Yeah. For sure.”

Genya cocked her head. “You sure you okay?”

“Yeah. I just, I might have seen him this morning,” I admitted, lowering my voice and biting my lip. He was having some sort of fit on the metro. If it’s who I’m thinking. And then he showed up in Calc, asking where the dance department was. Fucking weird, I tell you.”

“It’s gotta be him,” Genya muttered back. “You think--”

At that moment, the studio door opened and someone in a black trenchcoat swished in. In a flurry, he had removed his layers, dumping them in the little office to the side of the room, and now he was standing before the class in nothing but a tight tee and leggings. All black, of course.  _ What a surprise. The mysterious dude from the metro car. _

“Good morning,” he said stiffly, though it seemed nothing about the morning was “good” at all to him. “This is room 418... _ Intro to Ballet Choreography _ , correct?”

A silent nod from the class. Appreciative looks from the majority of the class, both girls and guys, as their gazes slid down his figure. Which was impressive, I had to admit.

“I am your new instructor in the absence of your previous Instructor Daniels, who had a medical emergency and will not be able to teach this class for the rest of the year. He is fine, I assure you.” A pause. “You may call me ‘Instructor Morozova,’ ‘Mr. Morozova,’ or simply ‘sir.’” His eyes roved over the students, who were now standing straight, in first position, all signs of phones absent. Students who laughably looked the same age as he did. “Please do not attempt to learn my first name, nor call me by it, despite any possible... _ inclination _ ...to do so.” At this, he turned to Annika, a blonde girl with a pointed nose who, just one moment ago, had been giving him an intimate stare complete with a tongue running across her lip.

“What a  _ slut _ ,” the girl standing on the other side of Genya muttered. Marie.  _ Typical of her to say that _ .

“I will not tolerate such language in this class,” Morozova intoned, not even turning his head to glance at Marie. “We are here for one thing. To craft dance. Is that clear?” The class nodded.

Morozova’s face was expressionless as he repeated, “I said,  _ is that clear? _ ”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He grabbed the attendance sheet from where it sat on the floor next to him, walked gracefully to the middle of the room and sat in a butterfly stretch. “Everyone, please form a circle…” There was a collective groan, but the class did as told. “Thank you. Now, we’re going to go around, I want to hear everyone’s full name, grade, and a bit about the choreography you’ve been individually working on. I know you know each others’ names, but I don’t. This is all for me. Anyone can start.”

A short silent commenced, followed by Genya’s voice. “I’m Genya Safin,” she announced loudly. “I’m a senior, and I’ve been working on a piece inspired by Alvin Ailey-style choreography.”

“Unless I am very much mistaken, Genya, and I am never mistaken, Alvin Ailey is not ballet. That is contemporary.”

“Yes, sir,” Genya replied without skipping a beat. “Instructor Daniels had us choose inspiration from a non-ballet origin and incorporate that into a ballet piece.” She shifted nervously as she waited for Morozov’s response.

“I see. Quite interesting. But a bold choice for high school seniors… Next.” His gaze slid to Marie. “Ah, yes, the girl who thinks that it’s acceptable to shame other girls.”

Marie flushed a bright red but said nothing. It was certainly a bold thing of him to say to her.  _ Not something that a teacher  _ should  _ say to a student. _

“My name is Marie Ilyin. I’m a senior, and my choreography draws inspiration from k-pop music videos.”

It went around like that.  _ Dante Thompson. Junior. ‘90s hip-hop inspired. _

_ Sofia Martinez. Junior. Salsa inspired. _

_ Alexis Chung. Senior. Superhero-action-sequence inspired. _

Then it was my turn. “I’m Alina Starkov. Senior. And my choreo is inspired by Fosse jazz.”

“Fosse?” Morozova asked lazily, glancing up from his attendance sheet to look at me.

“Yes, sir. My dance training actually originates from jazz.”

“Interesting.” His quartz eyes lingered on me for a second longer, then he turned and stood. “Well, then, for me to assess your dance level and technique, I would like us to do a simple sequence, no need to put on pointe shoes…”

I turned to the barre, ignoring Genya’s pointed look, and joined in the mindless exercise with the class. I still didn’t understand why Morozova was here, or why a twenty-year-old preferred to act as if he were forty-seven. He was uber-strict nonetheless. A Russian ballet prodigy, that much was obvious. Even his name. Fucking  _ Morozova _ . I smiled slightly and shook my head.

“Something funny?”

My head shot sideways to see Morozova standing there next to me, face cold as stone. Yet, there was another emotion there.  _ Amusement _ ? No.  _ Attraction _ ? Perhaps. In his eyes, I found a challenge. What it was, I didn’t know.

“Not at all, Instructor.” But I couldn’t help it: my discreet smile had split into a full grin that reached my eyes.  _ The irony of the situation. _

He grabbed my jaw and held it close to his face. His grip was tight, firm but not harsh. His expression had closed, face now unreadable. “ _ Do not play. In this class. _ Hear me, Starkov?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,  _ what _ ?”

“Yes, Instructor Morozova.”

He released me, and I drew back quickly, returning my arms to fourth position. Morozova returned to the front of the class and began chanting the sequence again. I heard a snicker from behind me.

“Shut up, Genya.”

“I’m never letting that go,” she whispered. “You just lived the fantasy of every single person in this room.”

I scoffed.  _ Sure _ . I flipped her my middle finger quickly, then returned my hand to the barre. I heard her give a low laugh, without catching Morovoa’s attention.  _ How did she do that? _

Class soon ended. Genya and I packed up our things and headed out of the dance department, entering the cold, barren winter. “They seriously need to add a hallway so we don’t have to do this three times a day,” Genya complained.

“We should get Nickolai’s dad to bribe them to do that.”

“Ooh, yes!”

We bust into laughter. And in that moment, I realized something. it was so nice to have a best friend, even when you didn’t have any idea what the fuck was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked this chapter! please leave kudos, a nice comment and/or constructive criticism! Have a great day or goodnight!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone had a great holiday, it's been a longgggg time since I've updated this, but here we are. a nice lunch with the gang:) hope you enjoy!

“Nikolai, can I have a grape?”

We sat at lunch in an easy-to-access spot in the cafeteria: Genya, Nikolai, Tolya, Tamar, Nadia, David, Harshaw, and I (Mal had a different lunch period) squished onto two benches made for six people. We called this the “King’s Table,” as it stood right in the middle of the room, on a raised dais with four other tables. At the beginning of freshman year, it had just been Nikolai, Toyla, and Tamar, but then it became the eight of us as Tamar began to date Nadia, when Nikolai met David and Genya, who of course had to drag me along with her. Harshaw? We had no idea how he was there. Genya speculated that he perhaps once had a secret relationship with Nikolai, but no one knew for sure.

Now, Nikolai passed me a green grape begrudgingly. “That’s it, okay? I need food too, you know.” He still had a smile on his face.

“I’m so tired,” Nadia groaned, putting her face flat on the table. A collective sound of agreement made its way around the group. “I can’t wait for it to be winter break.”

“I actually never want that to come,” Tamar said, setting down the coffee she had her hands wrapped around. “I mean, it’s cold, gloomy. We don’t see each other because it’s hard to go anywhere. I don’t know.”

“No, I feel ya,” Genya nodded.

We decended into silence, picking at our food and checking our phones. David had pulled out a book. I watched him glance up every so often, his gaze finding Genya, and immediately glancing back down to the page again. I shook my head with a small smile and took a bite of my chili. Chili from a can, of course. What else?

“Hey,” Nikolai piped up. “Anyone up for a slumber party? Movie, pizza, talking about crushes, painting nails, spilling the tea--”

“Shut up  _ now _ ,” I interrupted, elbowing him in the rib. He only grinned, sticking out his tongue.

“Okay, but seriously,” he replied, smile fading. “I never see you guys.”

“I’m in,” I said.

Approving responses rung around the table. “Yeah?” Nikolai looked pleased, as if someone had just given him a cupcake with buttercream frosting.

“Can Mal come?” I asked.

Nickolai frowned. “I don’t know, Alina. I mean, I don’t really know the dude.”

“That’s cuz he has a different lunch! He’s great, promise.”

Nikolai looked unconvinced. “He’s a jock.”

“You’re still the most popular kid from school, aside from Zoya,” commented Harshaw.

“Ah, yes, quite the travesty,” Nikolai said in with mock-disappointment, tapping his chin with his index finger. “She will never love me!”

“I’m sure she will,” was Genya’s reply. “And the two of you will make such perfect beautiful babies--”

“--and rule the school--”

“--go to Harvard--”

“--become president and first lady--”

“Don’t you mean, president and first gentleman?” Nikolai interjected.

“Yes,” I replied. “And then Zoya will actually be able to save the turtles, instead of pretending she makes a difference with her stupid metal straw.”

On the other side of the table, Harshaw clucked, “save the turtles sksksk!”

We burst into laughter. A laughter undertoned with the fact that Zoya’s little clique was right about one thing. The Earth needed to be saved, and fast. But a few high schoolers couldn’t do much. Could they?”

As if on cue, the cafeteria doors flew open and Zoya strode in, trailed by a group of girls wearing long shirts and leggings, bearing scrunchies and Hydroflasks. They each clutched a handful of flyers, which they began to tape to the walls all around the cafeteria.

“Climate strike on Friday!” Zoya called, her voice ringing through the room. The cafeteria’s chatter dimmed considerably at her announcement. The queen’s decree must be heard, after all. Zoya continued, “follow in the footsteps of our Swedish sister, Greta Thunberg!” She stepped onto the dais and handed out a few flyers to each table. When she reached ours, Nikolai began to preen.

“What an honorable cause, Zoya,” he said, giving her a charismatic grin, which she promptly ignored. After dumping two flyers on the table, she strutted off, leaving a crestfallen Nikolai in her wake.

“Sorry, my dude,” I comforted him, giving his shoulder a pat. “Next time.”

“I suppose,” he murmured.

At that moment, my phone buzzed. I squinted at it, swiping to see what the notification was--Mal.  _ I heard ab zoya’s climate strike _ , the text read. The word must have spread.  _ U wanna go? _ I was tempted to miss school for the sake of the climate cause, but I knew my heart was in the wrong place. That wasn’t the reason to join the strike, to miss class. I wished I was a better person, who cared more than only about passing class, and getting into a dance college. I wished I actually had the tenacity of Zoya and Greta. But I didn’t. I was selfish, and I hated that. I hated myself. What did I even care about? I laid my head down on the cafeteria table.

“Alina.” Nikolai prodded, tapping my arm. “ _ Alina _ . Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I mumbled, not fine at all. “Just tired.” I let out a sigh and glanced back at my phone. Mal’s text still glared up at me. I missed him, I realized.  _ Yes, I’ll be there _ , I typed back.

“Is anyone gonna do the strike on Friday?” Genya asked. “I want to go but not by myself.”

Tolya shook his head. “Tamar, Nadia and I have a test in environmental science. We can’t miss it.”

David nodded along, barely looking up from his book, despite the fact that he wasn’t in that class at all. “Yeah, I need to stay here. Sanders will have a fit if I’m not in class. I’m his best student.” He said it without a hint of pride, stating it solely as a fact. It probably was.

“I’m going to go,” Nikolai said excitedly. I rolled my eyes. Because of Zoya, probably.

“So will I,” added Harshaw. “I need a break from this fucking school.”

I looked around my group of friends. Who was even doing this for the actual cause? I mean, we cared, but our true intentions were false.  _ What does it matter? _ Another voice in my head pushed.  _ You’re still doing the strike _ . We were, I supposed. I shook my head, trying not to overthink the situation.

“So it’s gonna be just me, Mr.  _ Prince _ , and  _ Harshaw _ ?” Genya asked, her voice dipped in mock-annoyance.

“Hey!” Harshaw retorted. “I’m a great guy to hang out with!”

“Oh, Genya, I’m going too,” I said. “Mal’s gonna come too.”

“Ooh,” Genya teased, wiggling her perfect eyebrows. “We’re finally gonna meet Alina’s mysterious macho man.”

“I hope your boyfriend isn’t as boring as he looks,” Harshaw muttered.

“He’s not my boyfriend!” I protested. “We just grew up together. He’s my best friend!”

“Sure,” Nikolai acquiesced, shrugging. “And Genya doesn’t have plastic surgery.”

“I do  _ not  _ have plastic surgery!” Genya glowered, her eyes sending virtual lasers into Nikolai. “I’m just  _ this stunning _ !”

“Guys. Seriously,” Tamar scolded, glancing over at us from her conversation with Nadia. “We’ve been over this. Alina and Mal’s relationship is platonic, stop trying to enforce heteronormativity. And Genya’s plastic surgery is...a mystery.” She winked at Genya, who seethed quietly.

The bell rang. We all scrambled up to throw away our trash and grab our bags. “See you later,” I called as we exited the cafeteria. It was time for class with Mal, who I knew I could always count on in this mess. And Friday, we would strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! as always, I appreciate constructive criticism and/or praise!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morozova holds Alina up from going to the protest. He has...a proposal for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck yeah darklina! sexual tensions ensue! enjoy.

Friday came quicker than I expected, sneaking up on me as I passed day after day in a constant daze of classwork, pretending that I was fine, wishing I had more classes with Mal, and appreciating the beauty of Instructor Morozova.

Thursday, we’d gone through a difficult sequence of transitory positions meant to strengthen our choreo and smooth the flow and pacing of our creations. I had felt Morozova’s eyes on me almost the whole time, yet not at the typical places men would leer at. No, his gaze stayed on my face, and we frequently made eye contact. I’d wondered if he’d recognized me from the train, but if he did, he hadn’t revealed anything. The once-simple choreo class had turned into its own constructed sequence, a dance between Morozova and I. I had a vague, conflicted feeling about what this meant, but I pushed it aside, focusing instead on the mountains of classwork the seniors were being assigned.

Friday morning, I gathered myself as usual, pushing through the winter chill, forced myself to get on the metro, and arrived at school only a few minutes late. An accomplishment. When I stepped into my first class of the day, I saw Mal there as usual, tapping his pencil against the desk. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. “Hey, my dude,” I greeted under my breath as to not attract attention. “What’s up?”

“Eh,” Mal responded, which pretty much summed it up. I nodded in agreement, holding back a wide yawn. The class passed too slowly for the subject matter, and too quickly for time spent with my best friend. I waved goodbye, reluctantly heading down the hall. “I’ll see you at the protest!” he called behind me. I shot him a thumbs up and headed down the hall to Morozova’s classroom. Well. Hall wasn’t the word, was it? I trudged through the thick snow to the dance building and stepped inside, relishing the heat and dreading the climb to the fourth floor.

When I reached the studio, most of the dancers were already there, though few of them seemed ready to begin. Genya hadn’t even taken off her coat. She simply leaned against the wall, her thumbs flying over her phone and foot tapping the floor casually. “What are you doing?” she accused, once I set my bag down and began to strip down to my dancewear. “Aren’t you going to the protest?”

“Yep,” I responded, pulling off my wool sweater. “But it’s not till eleven. And right now, it’s ten.”

“Alina.” Genya shook her head disappointedly. “The  _ protest  _ is at eleven. The  _ walkout  _ is at ten thirty. Did you even read the flier?”

I paused from where I’d been stuffing the sweater into my bag. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, why else would everyone just be standing around?” She raised an eyebrow. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

At that moment, Instructor Morozova flurried into the room, his unbuttoned black coat a billowing cape to the unfocused eye. “Why are none of you dressed?”

No one took the initiative to answer.

“Well?”he asked again, this time more impatient. “You don’t just get to leave. Get dressed, please.”

“Instructor Morozova...Today’s the protest,” Genya finally said. “We are participating in a walkout and demonstration for the climate.”

Morozova flared his nostrils, and I could see his predicament. If he let the class go, he’d be seen as weak, spineless, at least compared to the uber-strict policy he’d held so far. But if he made us stay, he was even worse. Morally despicable. Young as he was, he couldn’t ideologically agree with those who chose to ignore climate change, and thus was his conundrum.

I watched the expression and confusion flash over his face in less than a few seconds before he steeled himself again. “I understand the situation,” Morozova intoned without any sort of emotion. I saw, from the corner of my eye, the class exchanging excited looks. It annoyed me slightly; they didn’t care so much for the environment, but rather for skipping class and escaping Morozova.

He hesitated for a brief second before continuing, a pause so slight that I barely noticed. Then--

“You may go.”

With a low murmur of excitement, the class shuffled out, their bags slung over their shoulders. I lingered a little before following Genya through the door, but at the last moment, that voice stopped me. “Wait, Starkov.”

I turned around slowly, a feeling of familiar apprehension and curiosity filling me. “Sir?”

“You must stay.”

“What?” I couldn’t help it. The exclamation burst from me in a rush of air, an indignant sound that echoed through the room.

“I need your help with something.”

“Please--sir, I need to go, to be there--”

“No, you can’t go. I don’t permit it.” We locked glares, his quartz gaze meeting mine in a silent battle of wills. Genya hung off to the side, looking astonished and nervous.

“You must stay, Starkov,” Morozova repeated, slowly and more forcefully this time. “Go, Safin. Or you’re staying behind, too.”

She didn’t need to be told twice, giving me an apologetic look as she raced to catch up with the student crowd.

“Why do you keep picking on me?” I finally asked once Genya had disappeared. I’d held in the question too long, and it was close to bursting. “From the first moment of class, you've singled me out for everything!”

“I know,” Morozova replied, voice calm amidst my outburst, his low voice contrasting mine, which rose higher and higher as I spoke. “That’s because you’re different from them, Alina.”

My name on his lips brought a shiver to my spine. It was almost...seductive, sensual. The odd thought occurred to me that he was only three--at this point, really closer to two--years older than me. I tried to shake the thought of my head, but the memory of Genya’s wink was burned into my mind.

I stepped back shakily, gripping the strap of my bag tightly to ground me to reality. Sure, Morozova was young and handsome. Hot, even. But he was still my teacher. And I was under eighteen.

Well… I only had a few months left. And those months would creep fast.

No! What the fuck was I thinking? No matter what age he or I was, we were still off-bounds. It was probably illegal, anyway.

And yet, the thought hung onto the smallest part of my brain as he continued to speak.

“I know you witnessed what happened to me on the train, Alina,” Morozova said, ripping me from my fantasies. How did he know? “I’ll explain that, if you’d like. But I think...you and I...we can be beyond amazing, if we work together. In just a few days, I’ve seen your talent. I’ve seen what you can do!”

Talent. He thought I had talent. “Sir, I’m definitely not top in the class. Another girl--”

“They may be more talented in the traditional sense,” Morozova interrupted, striding over to me with a disdainful air. “They are well-trained, polished...but  _ you _ …”

As his voice trailed off, I could sense the double meaning. I wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or frightened, but I was certainly intrigued.

“...you and I can alter the dance world forever,” Morozova finished. “You have this raw power and emotion behind your movements, I see it in the strength you extend to your limbs and through your expression. I’ve only seen one other person have that much potential before.”

“And who was that?” I asked, perhaps a bit impertinently.

“Me,” he replied smugly, raising an eyebrow. Our gazes met yet again, and I resisted the urge to look away as he walked even closer. “Join me.” There was hunger in those quartz eyes.

“I don’t even know what that means,”I snapped back, rolling my eyes. “Fuck off, Morozova.”

The words slipped out of my mouth before I remembered who I was talking to. He grabbed my wrist tightly and slammed me against the wall, teeth bared. I still couldn’t figure out why I’d said it--maybe it had been his youthful face, or coal-black locks trailing on either side of it. Maybe it had been the personal nature in which he’d addressed me.  _ Alina _ , rather than  _ Starkov _ .

“Watch your mouth,” Morozova sneered, his lip curling as he pressed me against the wall with one arm.

“Instructor,” I said, my mind suddenly full of ideas. If he was going to mess with me, surely I could reciprocate the favor. “Is this...allowed?”

“Is what allowed?” he asked sharply, loosening his grip. “...Oh.” His eyes suddenly registered our closeness, the way that his hips were angled just a centimeter from my own, and his pale face tinted slightly. He backed off when I leaned forward, putting a much further distance between us than was necessary.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?”

Morozova frowned. “Will you take extra private lessons with me? Begin to choreograph a piece for something greater than just school?”

I hesitated. How often did an opportunity like this come along? And at what price? But did I even mind paying it? “Fine,” I acquiesced after a long moment, folding my arms.

“Good,” said Morozova, voice professional and clipped once again. “Let’s begin now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos/comments always appreciated. stay safe and stay home!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nikolai hosts a sleepover for the gang. Mal raises valid concerns about Morozova.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry im a day late for the update! this is a longer chapter than I'm used to writing.

It simply had been too irresistible to turn Morozova’s offer down. I set my bag on the ground once more, sliding on my ballet flats, as Morozova had shaken his head when I’d pulled out the pointe shoes.

After I stretched, painfully aware of Morozova’s eyes upon me, I stood again and walked over to the bar, where he was waiting for me. “I have a few exercises for you, Alina,” Morozova said, placing a hand on the small of my back and applying a slight amount of pressure. I felt myself tilt forward in response, brain a tad fuzzy at both the usage of my first name and the touch of his hand through my leotard.

“Your posture is crooked,” Morozova said softly, his breath grazing my ear. I tensed and shifted my weight further onto my toes, letting my body’s muscles take control. “Is this better, sir?”

“Yes.” He stepped back, and I caught that embarrassed flush again, feeling slightly spiteful and vindicated. He only deserved what he put forth, after all. “Now that that’s fixed, we’ll move onto the choreo. You already know the basic transitional movements from my class, so I want to see you do something improv-related.”

I looked at him through narrowed eyes, unclear of his meaning. “Instructor Morozova?”

He sighed audibly and walked away, finding a seated position on the floor in the corner, legs spread to stretch in second position. I looked away quickly, not failing to notice all that was visible through his dance tights. “Show me something on the spot,” he told me. “Make it up.  _ Improv _ , Starkov.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, still flustered. “But aren’t you going to play music?”

He just stared at me, and I swallowed, a little annoyed. Shaking my head, I stepped into the middle of the studio and presented to him a sequence of moves that included several pirouettes intertwined with a string of rond de jambes and tendus, accompanying arm positions--first, second, fifth--and finished with a jeté.

He gave me a rare smile when I’d finished, although he did not clap. “Well done for a beginner,” Morozova said quietly. “But your jumps must be higher--you have such beautiful long legs, and you must use them properly. Your left turns are wobbly, and you were not counting to eight.”

“I didn’t have music!” I protested, but he placed a finger on my lips, which did indeed make me silence myself, albeit more out of the surprising pleasure of feeling his skin on my mouth. He seemed to notice it as well, and sucked in a breath.

“...Keep those notes in mind,” he finally murmured, stepping back and motioning to the door. “I look forward to our next private lesson, Alina.” There it was, my name again.

I tried not to linger on the thought, quickly exiting the room and taking my bag with me. Glancing once behind, I saw him staring at me with an intense expression, one that made my stomach flip pleasantly. “Goodbye, sir,” I replied. He nodded and I left.

***

That evening, we gathered at Nikolai’s place for the promised slumber party. “I tried to invite Zoya,” he explained as he scooped Genya some ice cream, “but she said no, much to my chagrin.”

“Only you would have the courage,” I mumbled under my breath, and Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “Do you like her, Alina?”

“No,” I snapped back. To be fair, Zoya was absolutely stunning, but I’d never found a reason to like her in  _ that  _ way before--not that I hadn’t had crushes on girls in the past, because I had. Then I wondered, if I didn’t care so much, why was I rationalizing it all in my head? I shook it to clear my brain, sucking my teeth. Well, it didn’t matter, anyway--I already had one person in my life to thirst over.

“You do?” Nikolai asked, turning to face me fully, and with a start, I realized that I’d said the last bit out loud. “Yeah,” I muttered to him. “But don’t tell anyone. And I’m not telling you who.”

He only grinned and handed me the bowl of ice cream. “Give this to dear Ms. Safin, won’t you?”

I rolled my eyes and retreated from the kitchen, tapping Genya on the shoulder. “Here.”

Genya flashed me a quick smile and took the bowl. “Mmph,” she grunted, feeding the spoon into her mouth and letting out a pleased sigh. “Nikolai, you  _ made  _ this?”

“What?” I asked, stunned. “You didn’t tell me you made it!”

“Mint chocolate chip, my speciality,” he said smugly, handing bowls to Tamar and Nadia, who sat hunched together rather closely, and returning to the kitchen to get ice cream for the rest.

Once we were all settled in a circle, heads pointed together, Nikolai sighed contentedly. “All right,” he announced. “Time to spill the tea. Alina’s got a crush.”

“No I don’t!” I cried too quickly, garnering a knowing smirk from Harshaw, who was blissfully petting Nikolai’s cat. “I mean,” I added, “It’s really nothing, you know?”

“Then you have nothing to lose if you tell us,” Nikolai said slyly, and I glared at him. “Fuck off.”

“If you say, my lady.”

I glanced around at them--all my friends in one place...Mal, Nikolai, Genya, David, Harshaw, Nadia, Tamar, Tolya… A thought pushed into my head, wondering how much Nikolai’s dad had spent on the sleepover, and I smiled to myself. Of course, Genya took this the wrong way, her eyes lighting up and a giddy grin taking over her features. “Oh my god, it’s Morozova!” she squeaked. Mal almost choked on his ice cream, and Tamar pounded him a few times on the back, although it hadn’t really been necessary.

“It’s not!” I protested, but by my friends’ expressions, my own face had already given my true feelings away. “Well--”

“Say no more, darling,” Nikolai said, hand flying elegantly into the air. “I, too, must admit that the  _ Instructor  _ could come and get it any day.” He looked at me with a slight frown. “That’s hardly a crush, though. Everyone secretly wants to bang Morozova.”

Tolya huffed, the first time he’d truly drawn attention to himself all evening, preferring to go along with the others, especially his sister. “Or not-so-secretly,” he remarked quietly

I did laugh at that. “See? Not important,” I told Nikolai. He nevertheless eyed me carefully for a few more seconds before shrugging.

Genya, on the other hand, her hand lurking suspiciously close to David’s, wore something much sharper in her gaze. “Does  _ he  _ like  _ you _ ?” she asked with excruciating slowness.

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly, sighing and flopping onto my back, staring at the perfect white ceiling of Nikolai’s basement. “Either way, it’s not exactly...legal, is it?”

“Technically, yes,” David said, his voice a little crusty from disuse. He cleared it before continuing. “The age of consent in DC is sixteen. And you’re allowed to have sexual intercourse with anyone twenty-three or under.”

Genya made a gagging sound, casting him a sidelong glance. “Ew, who says ‘sexual intercourse?’”

“I do,” David replied, oblivious. Genya flushed and her posture immediately changed, apprehensive expression transforming into an adoring one. I saw Mal raise his eyebrows slightly and I watched the exchange with a smirk. It was hard to believe that beautiful, graceful Genya Safin might have feelings for her longtime friend--and someone as nerdy as David Kostyk, but here the situation was, in front of our eyes.

“Anyway,” Mal said to a very awkward silence, “Alina’s not gonna  _ fuck  _ Morozova, even if by the off-chance she does get to date him.”

“You underestimate my charm,” I sniffed, flashing him a grin. He surprisingly didn’t return it, and I felt the smile on my face fade. I tried to communicate with him through our eyes, but Mal had already turned away, perhaps deliberately so. Fine, then. I would have to go talk to him privately when I got the chance.

We then speculated about Genya and David’s relationship (both of them vehemently denying all accusations) and played a few party games before Mal slipped out to grab a snack for the group from Nikolai’s pantry. I excused myself, seizing my chance, and followed him. “Mal!” I said, once we were out of earshot. “What the fuck is up with you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, as if he knew exactly what I meant. I gave a flick of my index finger to his forehead, but his features did not move.

“You’ve been ignoring me all night!” I practically whined, sucking my teeth. “What do I have to get you to do to stop being passive-aggressive, huh?”

Mal scrunched his brows, setting down the package of Oreos he’d been holding on the counter. “You really don’t know? Are you that stupid?”

His words made me flinch, and I wished immediately that I could take it back--and so did he. “Oh, Alina, I’m so sorry,” Mal said, wrapping me in a hug. “That was shitty of me.”

“Yeah,” I snapped, even as I was enveloped in his embrace. “Seriously, though, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He pulled away and glared at me for a few seconds and finally spoke. “You totally blew me off,” he explained, running his hand through his cropped brown hair. “I did the walk-out and went to the protest--tried to find you, but only saw Genya. She told me you’d been stopped by  _ Morozova _ .” He sighed. “I’d never hung out with any of them, Alina. I just...felt alone. Like you’d abandoned me.”

_ Oh _ . “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Mal,” I murmured, and drew him back into the hug. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

“But you  _ do _ ,” he protested, voice harsh and filled with a strange sort of fervor. “It’s a walk-out. That’s the  _ point _ ! And, Alina, I’m worried about something else.”

“What?” I asked, though I had the barest hint of what he might have been on about.

Mal groaned and squeezed his eyes shut in apparent distaste. “I just don’t want Morozova to...take advantage of you, somehow.” Seeing my raised brows, he stopped and started again. “No, I mean like--you may not even realize that he’s abusing you or grooming or some shit--”

“I can take care of myself. I don’t need your help,” I felt my lips say, the words cold, clipped, and unwarranted, emitting from my own mouth on instinct, without any real sort of forethought. Mal looked hurt, and rightfully so, pursing his lips angrily and grabbing the Oreos again with a little too much force, knocking them over instead. “Suit yourself,” he snapped, and retreated into the basement.

I cursed myself and kicked at the corner of the pantry, making my toe throb and hence only feeling worse. “Why, Alina?” I asked myself, not wanting to return to the sleepover quite yet. “Why the fuck did you say that?”

Mal and I did not speak for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! if you did, i'd love a kudos or comment of praise/feedback. stay safe and healthy. if you're protesting right now, remember to wear a mask. Black Lives Matter<3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alina has a lesson with Morozova and makes a few personal discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weeelcome back!
> 
> I have an announcement; I am going on a road trip starting Wednesday so I will be unable to write much. I've written a few chapter ahead of time, but still, the posting schedule may not be as accurate for the next few weeks. Enjoy! this chapter is definitely my favorite so far.

The weekend came and went, and Monday, I had my next private lesson with Morozova. He was cold and pensive as I walked into his room after the trek to the fourth floor, standing in the doorway where the studio turned into his office and looking up at the ceiling. The extra dance time had certainly brought some warmth and strength back to my limbs from the cold winter air, yet I still sighed, grateful to be back in the heated room instead of the frigid chill of the outdoors.

“Fosse,” murmured Morozova quietly. I wasn’t sure whether he’d been talking to me or simply himself. His head turned, and he locked eyes with me, gaze just as intense as it had been on Friday. I suddenly remembered Mal’s warning and looked away, but that only made me more incensed. Mal had underestimated me...and besides, I liked Instructor Morozova’s attention, whether it was appropriate or not.

“You said you were trained in Fosse jazz,” Morozova repeated, making his way over to where I stood. “And then moved to ballet.”

“...Yes?” I agreed slowly, still not sure what he was trying to get at. “And my choreo incorporates that.”

He stared at me for a few more seconds, seemingly appraising me, though I could not figure out why. “It affects your ballet,” he finally said, leaning forward. I felt myself flush at his nearness and willed myself to keep my composure. “You have these moments...where you--how do I say it?” His eyes narrowed. “You sometimes aren’t as graceful.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Morozova continued as if I hadn’t interrupted. “It allows you to show more feelings or a sort...you’re less of a pretty princess and more of a--well, someone with much more passion.”

I raised an eyebrow at him, feeling the corner of my mouth tilt up. “What kind of passion,  _ Instructor _ ?”

It was his turn to flush. I spotted barely perceptible patches of red appear on his porcelain face, the only color that stood out at all against his nearly white skin, quartz eyes, and lips of palest pink. Those same lips parted, and I saw his chest rise and fall rather visibly, as he wore only a thin black long-sleeved shirt and leggings that hugged every single part of him.

I stepped closer to him, drawing some type of courage and touching the top of his shoulder with my fingers. To my surprise, he did not back away, instead placing his hand on my waist. I felt it press there slightly and leaned into his touch. Again, he did not move, only coming closer. “Instructor?” I whispered quietly.

He shook his head fervently as if there was a fly buzzing around him. “No, Alina...please call me Aleksander. That--that’s my first name.”

“Aleksander,” I whispered, and he smiled. It was all a bit odd--after all, I knew next to nothing about him. But it felt right. The ghost of a smile flitted again across his face, and I felt his lips approach mine, the sense of inevitability almost electric. When it came, the moment was chaste and soft, our lips barely touching, with the feeling of his hand on my waist and mine placed gently on his shoulder.

He pulled back to soon, the reality of what he’d done flooding into his eyes. “No,” Morozova--Aleksander--whispered, breaths coming out shallow and loud in the silent studio. “I can’t--you can’t--” It was one of those moments of utter vulnerability again, when his composure slipped and revealed a much more complex person beneath the veneer. He was sure to hate it, but _ I _ did not, could not.

His quartz eyes seemed to gleam a little, and I felt even more bitter at what Mal had said. How could a man like this lie about his intentions? Then I realized that was a childish way to think, and pushed it away, becoming even more upset.

Aleksander seemed to notice my conflict, and he took his hand in mine. “Let’s just...choreograph. Dance,” he said to me, voice filled with this raw emotion that I knew too well. It was the voice of regret. I’d felt it when my parents had died--that I couldn’t save them--and I felt it in every little moment that I remembered them, when I stood facing the train tracks underground, wondering whether I should jump, and whenever I saw the smiling faces of my friends, wondering if I could just be as happy as them. And I felt it now, even standing with a dance instructor that I barely knew.

“Yes,” I replied. “Let’s dance.”

We did just that. Aleksander righted me and stopped my fall when I attempted a quad pirouette that didn’t have quite enough momentum; he demonstrated the proper movements that I missed; he kept his hand, strong and sure on my back to make sure it was straight.

But it was not quite professional, in all truth.

When I swiveled my hips around, five fingers extended and splayed out, I caught his eyes tracing the motion, and he walked over again to correct the small mistakes. “You’re too used to ballet,” Aleksander said, his hands settling on my hips. “Loosen up.”

I did so, and he took the opportunity to swivel my hips again, this time manually and at his behest. I felt a distinct, tight burning between my legs, and tried my hardest to ignore it. Yet...I still cast him a dark look, eyes lidded just the proper way, and Aleksander gasped, quickly turning around and shuffling over to his office awkwardly. “Don’t pull that trick again, Starkov,” he called to me out of sight. “I won’t be so tolerant!”

“It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself,  _ Instructor _ ,” I shot back, still trying to quell my own arousal. “Fuck,” I whispered to myself under my breath. In his office, I was sure that Aleksander Morozova was sharing the same sentiment. The thought made me laugh a little, and I remembered back to when he’d first came here, seemingly so interested in my dance fusion choice...jazz, specifically Fosse… Had he been just as interested in me then?

I shook the thought from my head and folded my arms glumly. He was turned on by me then--we at least shared some kind of physical connection...but was he even willing to explore a relationship? He’d asked me to call him by his first name...and that was what struck me as important. Then and there, Aleksander had been at his most raw and unguarded, the most frightened. It had all been well and good, the flirting and the sexual tension...that he hadn’t minded at all, had even welcomed, but this…

“I’m sorry,” I said to the air, clearly, so that he’d be able to hear. Aleksander emerged from his office again, face sheened with a slight amount of sweat. It was hilarious, I had to admit. “For what are you sorry?” he asked, genuinely baffled.

I shook my head, willing my eyes to say what I didn’t care to. “I just--I’m making this hard for you, your job here, and I know I’m annoying and careless--”

“You’re not any of those things, Alina,” he interrupted, closing the distance between us again. He hesitated one moment before cupping my cheek gently, and I leaned into his caress for the second time. Did he care, after all?

There was a loud and intrusive knock on the door, and it flew open without warning. Aleksander and I jumped back. I could feel that my face was hot again, and from what I could see, Aleksander’s was the same.

Zoya Nazyalensky stood in the doorway, her face flushed from the cold. But Aleksander and I...we had no excuse. Zoya’s gaze flitted between us suspiciously, her eyes narrowed. Finally, after that long moment of scrutiny, she spoke up. “I’m called to bring Alina Starkov to her guidance counseling session.

_ Oh, shit _ . I’d forgotten. “Right,” I said, rushing over to where I’d dropped my dance bag. I shot Aleksander an apologetic look and followed Zoya. “Thank you, Instructor.”

“I will see you next time, Miss Starkov.”

Once Zoya and I had left the vicinity, she began to chatter incessantly. “I saw what was going on back there,” she said to me with a knowing tone. “You should be careful.”

“Thanks, Zoya,” I replied through gritted teeth. “Didn’t think of that at all.”

“I’m just trying to help!” she retorted, shooting me a nasty look, complete with pursed lips and a wrinkled nose. Somehow, she still managed to appear as stunning as ever. “Why do you act like you're better than everyone else?”

“What?” I asked, taken off-guard. “Um, Zoya, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but that seems to be  _ your  _ role.”

She scoffed, pulling her furred blue coat around her and thrusting her head into the wind as we crossed the courtyard. “I’m just trying to help everyone.” And, though I hated to admit it, Zoya was right. We walked in silence for a few more moments.

“Zoya?” I finally asked tentatively. “You know that Nikolai likes you, right?”

She huffed, rolling her eyes. “Maybe he does, Alina, but I’m really not vibing with rich white dudes right now.”

“Well, who are you vibing with, then?”

She paused in her quick pace, turning to face me with utter precision. “Short Asian girls who underestimate how attractive they are and are being hit on by dance teachers,” she said in one breath. “There. Happy?”

_ Oh _ . “I--” I remembered what Nikolai had said back in his kitchen as he scooped ice cream.  _ Do you like her, Alina?  _ I had responded so quickly, so fervently  _ no _ , and now... 

I let out a shaky breath, seeing her again as if it were the first time. She had these long, curly, dark lashes, so thick I wondered if they were fake--and her dark skin practically glowed in the face of the bright white snow melting around us. “I, uh--” I stuttered again.

Zoya blinked a few times, her mouth screwed in an uncharacteristic frown, jaw twitching slightly. Other than that, her face betrayed no expression.  _ That’s why you didn’t come to the sleepover _ , I thought to myself. Zoya suddenly began to walk again, setting a brisk pace through the double doors at the other end of the courtyard. I followed her, nearly running to catch up.

“This is for you,” she said when we were inside again. She reached under the sleeve of her blue coat and pulled out a golden scrunchie, which she slid onto my wrist over my glove. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing with Morozova, but at least take this. And know that I’ve had feelings for you for two years.”

She left me standing there with my arm still held out in the air, and I finished the walk to the counselor's office alone. I wasn’t sure what to think; how to feel. My mind and heart were a mess of emotions--Zoya and Aleksander swirled around in my brain, refusing to relinquish their holds on me--and yet I didn’t care to choose one or the other; I was so utterly confused.

This feeling only worsened when I stepped inside the counselor's office to find a completely new advisor sitting in the chair behind the mahogany desk, her ancient wrinkled fingers drumming mindlessly on the table.

“Who are you?” I asked stupidly. “Where’s Ms. Thompson?”

“Rude girl,” the woman sneered, and I cursed myself for not thinking before speaking. “Sit down.”

I sat, noticing then the unbearable heat to which she had attuned her office. It didn’t make sense--the whole building had one thermostat--but then I spotted the portable heater sitting in the corner of the room, and sighed. _ Well, at least I’m not going crazy _ .

“Hello, Miss Starkov. I’m Ms. Baghra,” the woman said sternly. “That’s my first name--no questions, you must call me ‘Ms,’ understand?”

I nodded quickly. She only raised her eyebrows, the movement emphasizing the many wrinkles on her face. “Yes, ma’am,” I amended. Her proclamation and  _ demeanor  _ were oddly familiar--I was reminded of Instructor Morozova’s first day at the academy--well,  _ Aleksander’s  _ first day--and felt an itch somewhere in my mind, an itch that I couldn’t scratch.

Baghra interrupted my thoughts wearing a peculiar sort of smile. “I’m here to discuss your future,” she said in a crackly voice. “Your career and beyond. You are headed to a professional dance academy in the fall, correct?”

I nodded again. “Up North, Ms. Baghra.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what are you going to do about your career opportunities here?”

I looked at her, my brows scrunching together. “...Here?” I asked.

“Yes, here,” Baghra replied, giving me a pointed look. “You have quite the-- _ relationship _ \--with Instructor Morozova, do you not?”

“Whatdoyoumean?” I asked quickly, the words coming out jumbled and incomprehensible.

She gave me a mock-quizzical look. “All I  _ mean _ ,” Baghra replied slowly, “is that he’s offered you the opportunity to choreograph with him.” Her voice was sickeningly cheery, laced with pretend innocence.

_ Who are you? _ I wondered. Baghra smirked at my expression--whatever it must have been--and leaned back in her chair, rolling closer to the heater. “That’s all,” she added.

I flared my nostrils, willing myself to stay calm. “Oh.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” she repeated, mocking my tone. “Calm down, Starkov. I won’t tell anyone.”

“How--?”

“How do I know about this?” she guessed, turning up the heater. “I have my ways.” She leaned forward in her seat as if she was whispering a secret. “You shouldn’t trust that man, Aleksander Morozova.”

I was reminded of a sudden memory--that incident on the train all those weeks ago, on Aleksander’s first day at the academy. I still had no idea what had happened there--no idea, in fact, if it had all just been a dream I’d had days later after he arrived. I truly wasn’t sure what I could count as fantasy or reality anymore.

My lips had dried in the past few seconds, and I licked them unconsciously. Baghra noticed my apprehension, smirking a little. “You don’t know a thing about him,” she said. “Maybe your friends have said similar things--” (They had; Nikolai and Zoya had.) “--but I know him. I’ve known him for a long time. And you do not want to be caught up in what he’s involved with.” Her eyes were suddenly sharp and piercing, much like Aleksander’s when he looked at me, but this was a different kind of ferocity.

“...What do you mean by that?” I asked, cautious.

Baghra eyed me for a second before continuing, as if seeing if I was worthy to know. Apparently, I wasn’t. “He’s not normal,” she finally said, voice clipped and final. “That’s all you need to know. Go to his class, take his private lessons, if you will.  _ But do not get involved further than that. _ ” Her voice was almost pleading now, making my eyes widen a little.

“Y-yes, ma’am,” I said, not actually sure if I meant it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“See that you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and i hope you enjoyed that!! kudos/comments are always appreciated.
> 
> stay safe, and don't let the momentum we have going on right now die!!! Black Lives ALWAYS Matter--if you've stopped posting about it, you need to think about why you supported the movement in the first place. Do you care? or were you simply avoiding being canceled? and remember... we're still in the middle of a pandemic, so make sure to wear masks and be safe. see you next week<3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, it's been a while! But I do have this fic all planned out chapter-by-chapter, I just need to write it (which will be hard once fall hits, but we'll see. Until then, enjoy this--and know that it's going to get much more complicated...

I left Baghra’s office soon later, still wondering who she was...why she seemed to know so much. Had she been involved herself?

It was all too much. I left the building in a haze, shivering under my lined winter coat. It was about to be March, and yet it was still below freezing. I walked the length to the metro station and waited silently for the train to come, relishing the relative silence around me. Leaving extra-late from school had its perks, one being that rush hour was mostly over.

I wondered to myself why Zoya had even been there that late, then remembered that she was a part of the Green Team that worked to end climate change. In all my personal struggles, I’d forgotten about that--forgotten about the illness that plagued the Earth, and it was suddenly as if the world’s issues came crashing down around me, the gravity of every plight--racism, homophobia, sexism, climate change, police brutality--all being realized at once. It was overwhelming, and I had to sit down on one of the station’s benches, letting the tears pour from my eyes and freeze on my cheeks.

It was easy to forget everything, even when I did face these problems on a daily basis. Yes, I gotten bullied when I was younger, sometimes even now, for being part Asian and part white...I sometimes felt like I never belonged anywhere, especially being bisexual too--it just became all too much, and I blocked everything out except for the problem right in front of me. And that’s what I had been doing, but it was now all too much, and I had a strange foreboding feeling that everything was about to get worse.

I stood as the train approached, the yellow lights flashing on the platform at my feet. The cars came in with a rush of wind, and I relished the feeling across my exposed face, even though I was very cold already. When the doors slid open, I stepped inside and collapsed on the nearest seat, blocking out the sound of the train operator’s voice as he announced that the doors were closing.

The train car was silent, as it always was, the few people riding with me with their heads lowered, eyes glued their cell phones. I was too tired to do anything much, and simply laid my head back on the seat cushion, not caring how dirty it was.

When my stop came, I stood slowly, walking from the car in sluggish movements. I made the short walk to my house and rifled through my coat pockets for the key. When I stepped inside, the same silence awaited me; I felt it press upon me, the weight almost too much to bear. Shucking off my boots, I threw down my bag and went to take a shower, letting the hot water drip down my back for far too long. I did not eat that night, instead falling onto my bed and immediately succumbing to sleep.

I found myself awake and in an unfamiliar place, much greener than anything I’d ever seen in my lifetime. The world was filled with tall trees with perky leaves and flowers, a complete contrast to my daily life, where there only was a great, lonely barrenness.

Still, it was cold, despite the vegetation. I was standing in the middle of a forest glen, and there was a white stag before me,  _ staring  _ at me, it seemed. There was something I’d come here to do—but I couldn’t remember what it was. Something selfish. Something for the greater good.

I reached my hand out to the stag, and though it shied away, I crept closer, until it realized my kind intentions, or at least, the appearance of such, and let my hand rest upon the top of its head, right between its antlers.

When my skin contacted the stag’s fur, a wave of nausea rose from the pit of my stomach, making its way through my body. I saw too many things—myself, pirouetting on a black stage, a bowler hat on my head as the dance style shifted—Aleksander was there, his hands strong and sure around my waist as we danced together… The audience clapped ferociously as he dipped me low in a final pose, roses falling into our midst.

But no—Aleksander was no longer Aleksander, instead, Zoya clutched at my waist, her lithe fingers coming to my face and her heavily-lidded eyes fixing upon mine as our lips came close to touching—but not quite—and suddenly I was falling, down, down, down… There were Zoya and Aleksander there again, but they were not the same… Aleksander wore a disgustingly twisted expression, enveloped, it seemed, by a cloud of darkness, and Zoya stood by his side, far too close.

And I was there too. My face was stony and pale in the shadows, my figure outlined by an artificial glow of light. It reminded me of frescoes in churches of saints. All three of us wore strange long cloaks—black, blue, and gold, beacons of some sort of institution that I didn’t understand.

It all came and went, and I lifted my hand from the head of the stag shakily, shuddering in the dark wood. Then, suddenly, an arrow flew at the stag; it fell to the ground in a heap, and I screamed, some other part of me registering that this was more than what it seemed.

Aleksander lowered the bow, his lip curled in disgust. I’d never seen him wear this expression on his countenance before, and it was frightening. “You’re  _ mine _ ,” he hissed, hands approaching my neck with something in his grasp—it was all moving too fast, too soon, too... _ no _ .

Everything was going backwards now, as if I was stuck behind the face of a clock, its hands striking me with fierce intent. I cried out, but there was no one to hear me.

Aleksander’s face went from furious to stoic to heartbroken in one instant, and finally, something else...he was tired, defeated, just like me. The arrow he’d loosed flew backwards, he walked backwards, the cape of his robes still flowing in the winter wind, the greenery around us fading to a snowy landscape. Everyone was gone, now, leaving only the two of us.

“Remember, I said, Alina...you and I are going to change the world,” Aleksander said, voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

Several pairs of hands grabbed at his arms from behind and he released a harsh, all-too-familiar yell that I knew from  _ somewhere _ , then disappeared in a pool of ink that stained the air. I felt a strangled scream leave my mouth, and Zoya’s hand was there over my lips, stifling the sound. “This is  _ his  _ fault,” she whispered out of my line of vision, her voice a growl that I’d never heard her use before. “I fucking told him. And I told  _ you _ , too.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. “Zoya!” I tried to say, but her grip over my mouth was vice-like and unyielding. She dragged me over to a sleigh that hadn’t been there a moment before, and with a start, I realized that I was wearing a shimmery golden gown embroidered with blue thread.

A wave of fear washed over me right then and there. I had no idea where I was, what time it was, where I was headed. All I knew was Zoya sitting beside me, her hand finally falling from my mouth to her lap, where it gripped the reins tightly as we rushed from the forest and into an unfamiliar countryside.

I woke with a start, flying from my bed, hands shaking. I felt my chest gasping for breaths of air, a sense of foreboding pervading my brain. I still held loose chunks of memory in my head from my dream, but they were very few and disjointed...there was a stag, there was darkness, and  _ time _ …

I rushed to the restroom and splashed water on my face, still breathing heavily. “Fuck,” I whispered to the empty house. It was in these moments that I missed my family more than ever. My father, holding me in his arms after a childish nightmare, my mother, giving me wise advice that kept me strong.

I felt tears sting my eyes and drip down my cheeks, but I did nothing to wipe them away. I didn’t care. I was so, so  _ alone _ , and the world was going to shit. Something on the edge of the sink caught my eye, a razor—but in the darkness, it truly seemed more like a knife. Knives could draw blood… I shook my head forcefully, staring at my sunken eyes in the mirror. “Shut up, Alina,” I mumbled to the night silence.

Walking back to my bedroom, I laid my head on the pillow, trying in vain to fall asleep again. I was too scared that I’d fall back into the strange land I’d discovered. The morning light slowly crept in through the curtain, and yet I still did not close my eyes, lest I be thrust into that helpless fear again. At least, now, my breathing had slowed and become even again.

I’d never been one to take any stock in dreams, but how could I not in this moment? I wasn’t even sure what I could trust to be real anymore...I could remember Zoya telling me that something was all my fault, mine and Aleksander’s...what had we done?

That thought became a mantra, repeating itself over and over again in my brain until I was sick of it. And still, that entire day, I could not let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoyed! as always, kudos and comments are always appreciated, including feedback! see you in the next update!:)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I'd love some kudos, a nice comment, or constructive criticism, suggestions, etc:)


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